“Very good. Very good! What do you think of that, Jack—eh, Arkwright?—good-bye, Baddeley.”
“Good-day, Sir Charles.” We heard the Inspector’s footsteps down the drive. I turned to Anthony.
“You deliberately kept Mary’s evidence from him, and you didn’t show him those letter fragments I found in the bedroom. Why?”
“Why? Well, I told him as much as I thought was good for him to know!”
“It seems hardly fair to him,” I muttered. “He’s handicapped.”
“Less than if I hadn’t told him what I did. I’ve helped him. For instance he’s got the Barker I.O.U. and the cigar stub. He’ll probably get to work on the latter at once.”
This last remark was a wonderfully good shot on Anthony’s part. For Inspector Baddeley went straight into the village to the larger of the two tobacconists that supplied Considine and its adjoining district with its nicotine needs. This establishment was kept by a large florid-faced man—Abbott, by name. Baddeley handed over the object of inquiry.
“Could you possibly tell me what brand of cigar this is, Mr. Abbott?”
Abbott took it, after the manner of a connoisseur. Felt it—then smelt it. Then shook his head. “Afraid not, sir. But it’s just a common one. Quite ordinary—what we in the trade would call a four-penny or five-penny smoke—sold in a ‘pub’ very likely. But I couldn’t give the brand a name.”
“I see! Sold many yourself lately?”
Abbott’s answer was a decided negative.
“Don’t sell a cigar once a week now, down here! It’s all tobacco and cigarettes with the villagers. Afraid I can’t help you there.”
The Inspector thanked him and withdrew.
“Drawn a blank there,” he muttered to himself, dismally. He weighed the matter over in his mind. Should he pursue that line of investigation any farther? It seemed to him that it would prove, in all probability, a fruitless one. He might go to a dozen places and fail to find anything definite about a cigar like this—it might have been purchased a hundred miles away. Again it might prove nothing—it might have been, as he had been quick enough to point out—Prescott’s own—just left on the wash-stand basin carelessly. He decided to abandon it. Then the question of the I.O.U. obtruded itself again. One thing, he knew whose that was! On second thoughts that should prove very much more profitable if followed up. Confronted by that—Lieutenant Malcolm Barker might, conceivably, tell a different story. Major Hornby, too! Try as he would, he couldn’t entirely rid his mind of the suspicion that that gentleman knew more than he had so far been disposed to tell.
Baddeley squared his shoulders and thrust his hands into his pockets. He would lose no time in seeing both Barker and Hornby again. This time they would find him very much more determined. Especially Major Hornby—damn him!
Anthony drained his last cup of tea and pushed his chair away from the breakfast table.
“Fitch!” He called the butler over to his side. Fitch listened to him.
“Yes, sir. With pleasure. I think it’s the July issue. I will obtain it for you, sir; in just a moment!”
I think the rest of the company were somewhat surprised to see the excellent Fitch return with the A.B.C.
“Leaving us, Bathurst?” queried Sir Charles Considine. “You haven’t forgotten our——?”
“No, sir. Only taking a run up to town. I shall be back this evening.”
“Want a companion?” I asked.
He thought for a moment or two. “Awfully good of you, Bill—but if you don’t mind, I’ll go alone. I’m not altogether sure that I shan’t be wasting my time—so I’ve no desire to waste yours, possibly!” He smiled his disarming smile. I was immediately mollified.
“Have the Morris-Oxford, Bathurst, to run you to the station,” offered Sir Charles.
“Thank you very much, sir, I shall be delighted. I’ll leave here about twenty minutes past ten. I’ll just go and get ready.”
“What’s taking him away, Bill?” said Jack Considine. “I’m not inquisitive I hope, but is it this Prescott business?”
“I can’t say,” I replied. “Very probably, though.”
“I think it must be,” announced Sir Charles. “Baddeley was up here again yesterday, you know. I had a moment with him. I gave him a rub or two concerning the inquest.” He chuckled. “He’s a very decent fellow though, and very despondent at the moment over his lack of success in regard to, what I am informed, is now known to the world in general as ‘The Billiard Room Mystery.’” He sighed. “Such is fame, Helen! Anyhow, when I realized that he was genuinely sore and upset, I tried a different tack. I’m afraid this case would have tried a greater brain than Baddeley’s.”
“Well, I for one, sincerely hope the affair will be settled,” intervened Captain Arkwright. “We are all more or less under a cloud while it remains unsolved—that’s how I feel about it. And others besides us—Hornby, Tennant, Daventry—and all the fellows that were here at the time.”
“That’s very true,” agreed our host. “The whole house is under a cloud—the Cricket Week will always have this unholy reminiscence hanging over it—even after the whole tangle is cleared away—if it ever is cleared away. Of course there is less strain for all of us since Mrs. Prescott returned to London.”
The door opened and Anthony came quickly in.
“The car’s waiting, sir, so with your permission, I’ll get away.”
He waved a good-bye and shortly afterwards we heard the car go humming away down the road. He reached the station with a good five minutes to spare before his train (as he related afterwards) so he sauntered to the booking office to get his ticket. Surely he knew that figure just in advance of him!
“Good-morning, Inspector!” Baddeley wheeled quickly at the unexpected greeting.
“Why, it’s Mr. Bathurst. Going to Victoria, sir?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Thought of taking a run up.” He grinned. “Though I didn’t know I was coming till this morning, itself.”
“Good! We’ll travel together then, Inspector.”
The train rumbled in and the pair sought, with success, an empty compartment.
Baddeley was in a communicative mood.
“Major Hornby has left Canterbury, Mr. Bathurst. You may be interested to know that. I made inquiries last night. He’s stopping at a private hotel in the Kensington district—near Gloucester Road.”
Mr. Bathurst was interested—but not tremendously. He was not aware of the Inspector’s desire to get into touch again with Major Hornby. How had the Inspector fared over the little matter of the cigar stub?
“A dead end, Mr. Bathurst!”
Mr. Bathurst complimented his companion upon the particular aptness of his reply, but was assured with transparent sincerity that it had been unintentional. How far had the Inspector taken the line of his investigation?
“It was a commonplace brand of cigar—sold most probably in a ‘pub’—to trace it would entail a long and arduous task—and then might prove to be unilluminative. I abandoned the idea!”
Then the Inspector was not at work on it this morning?
“No, as I indicated, I’m desirous of having another interview with Major Hornby. Are you leaving Considine for good?”
Mr. Bathurst was most certainly doing nothing of the kind. He was merely paying a visit to a friend. He was returning to Considine that evening—all being well.
“A great weight of what I will term—police opinion is in favor of charging Webb and his wife with the murder of Mr. Prescott. Up to the moment I have stalled them off. I don’t think Webb’s the man. That shoe-lace business doesn’t spell Webb to my way of thinking, and as for the lace found in the ‘Spider’s’ pocket—one lace is very like another.”
Mr. Bathurst assented. But was rather surprised that Webb had not yet been charged with the murder.
“I’m not denying that a very strong ‘prima facie’ case could be made against him,” said Baddeley—“because it undoubtedly could.”
“Had Webb an alibi from any time of the fatal night?” asked Mr. Bathurst.
“Yes, he’s attempted to put one forward from about two-fifteen. He states that he was with a confederate—so it comes from a source that is suspect—a good counsel would speedily demolish it.”
Mr. Bathurst agreed. But there was Andrew Whitney to be considered. His evidence would help Webb considerably. He considered it was very sporting of Inspector Baddeley to have put him up before the Coroner.
Inspector Baddeley was not oblivious to the compliment and smiled his acknowledgment.
Then Mr. Bathurst took a turn.
Had the Inspector by any chance a photograph of the body when found? He believed he was correct in his idea that the Inspector had ordered Roper to take certain photographs of the room and body on that first morning.
Mr. Bathurst was quite right in his assumption, and Inspector Baddeley would be delighted to show him what he had. He produced half a dozen plates.
Mr. Bathurst examined them carefully. The Inspector offered his help. Was there any point in the disposition of the body upon which he could throw any further light?
Mr. Bathurst thanked him, but replied in the negative. He was not concerned about the position of the body. He was curious about the position of the red ball!
The Inspector stared in amazement. The red ball was not on the table! What on earth did Mr. Bathurst mean?
Mr. Bathurst quite understood that the red ball was not on the table because it was in the pocket as shown by one of the photographs taken from a higher altitude. He pointed it out to the Inspector—lying on top of the other two. By the time they reached Victoria, Inspector Baddeley was more perplexed than ever. “This is where we part, Inspector,” said Anthony, as they passed through the barrier. “Au’voir.”
Anthony made his way to the underground and booked to Cannon Street. Arrived there he made tracks for the Main station.
The next train to Blackheath was at 12.22.
“That will land me there just in time for lunch,” he thought to himself, and events proved him to be a sound prophet.
A smart-looking maid took the card he proffered her, and in a few seconds he found himself in what was evidently the drawing-room.
Mrs. Prescott followed him in. “I got your wire, Mr. Bathurst, and of course, I am very pleased to see you. I can hardly realize yet all that has happened. I’m trying to bear up—but frankly, I have little left in the world now to capture either my interest or my imagination. Now, what is it you wanted to see me about?”
Anthony was all sympathy. “I want to talk to you about your boy.”
“You asked me a good many questions at Considine Manor, Mr. Bathurst. You wish to ask me some more?”
“If you would be kind enough to answer them.”
Mrs. Prescott bowed her head in assent.
“First of all, let me assure you that I feel a very great sympathy with you in your sorrow.” He touched her arm for a brief moment, very gently. “And I have every hope that the crime which has hurt you so much will not go unpunished.” He spoke with a feeling that Mrs. Prescott was not slow to detect.
“I thank you for your words and for your sympathy, too, Mr. Bathurst.”
“Tell me about your boy—as much as you can—everything!”
It was not a difficult thing that he had asked her.
A mother who has lost her boy—under the circumstances that she had—grasps at the straws of reminiscence to save herself from going under.
“Begin at the beginning,” said Anthony.
She told him. He listened attentively. She got to his cricket—he had played for Oxford at Lords’.
Then Anthony made his first interruption.
“Tell me, Mrs. Prescott—has your son in any game or sport—been ambidextrous?”
Mrs. Prescott showed signs of surprise.
“Think carefully,” he reiterated. “Did he ever bat left-handed or bowl left-handed—did he ever play billiards, for instance, left-handed?”
She shook her head. “Never to my knowledge, Mr. Bathurst.”
“Had he any personal peculiarities, at all?”
“Peculiarities? Well, I suppose every one of us has a——”
“I mean physical. For example—a right-handed acquaintance of mine always counts money with his left hand and deals cards in the same way.”
“I see what you mean,” she declared. She thought, but to no effect.
“No, Mr. Bathurst, I can’t think of anything like that.”
Anthony accepted the situation, and Mrs. Prescott continued her memories.
“I can’t imagine anything more that I can tell you,” she concluded very quietly.
“Thank you very much. One last point. Had your son any particular knowledge of knots? The various types of knots that can be tied, that is?”
“Once again—not that I know of,” she answered. “I think the only knot that I have ever seen him tie—was just an ordinary bow. Why do you ask?”
“A little whim of mine, Mrs. Prescott. Nothing more.” He rose.
“You’ll stay to lunch, Mr. Bathurst. I insist.”
Anthony did, and when about to take his departure sometime afterwards realized that his hostess was a singularly able woman.
He shook hands with her. “Good-bye, Mr. Bathurst. You have hopes?”
“I have,” he said gravely. “And fears. We are on the verge of a very horrible discovery. But it can’t be helped. Good-bye.”
Mrs. Prescott looked white and troubled as he spoke. “Good-bye,” she murmured.
Anthony made off down the road—a prey to conflicting thoughts. Then he encountered a surprise, that quickly jolted him back to realities. Two figures passed by on the other side; well in his view. He stared in surprise. Major Hornby and Lieutenant Barker! “What the devil——” He stopped in the shadow of a wall and watched them curiously. They knocked at and entered the house that he had just left!
“Now—what on earth,” he muttered. A hand touched him on the arm, and a voice exclaimed eagerly: “Tell me—quickly—whose house is that, Mr. Bathurst?” The hand was the hand of the Law—and the voice the voice of Inspector Baddeley.
When Anthony left us that morning there was much speculation as to where he had gone and deny it as I might, I am pretty certain that the company generally regarded me as being in his confidence.
“What’s his game, Bill?” demanded Arkwright. “You must know—from—what’s the correct term—information received.”
I declared my ignorance. “Bathurst has not told me his destination—and what’s more, I haven’t asked him. I told Jack just now I knew nothing of his movements or intentions—for to-day! He has, of course, confided one or two matters to me during the past few days. I think, perhaps, I’ve helped him a bit—once or twice.”
I spoke with a sense of pride.
“Well, I for one, wish him success,” cut in Jack Considine, crisply. “Gerry Prescott was one of the best. A thunderin’ good all-round sportsman, and we can ill afford to lose him. I tell you I’m more than sorry that he’s gone—there are plenty of fellows the world could have spared before Gerry Prescott! I know we shall miss him in the ‘House.’”
This outburst of Jack’s startled me somewhat, and I noticed Helen Arkwright and her husband look at him curiously.
Sir Charles himself, also seemed a trifle taken aback.
“Seems to me we have to wait till we’re dead—to be thoroughly appreciated,” I put in.
“Something like that, Bill,” said Mary. “I’ve noticed that.”
She rose and went into the garden. To me she had grown more lovely than ever, during the past few days. The blow that had befallen Considine Manor, and the sorrow that it had brought in its train, seemed to have invested Mary with a serener beauty. It was almost as though the charming winsomeness of the maid had merged into the more steadfast beauty of the woman. The sadness and sorrow had hastened the hand of Time. It was borne upon me at that moment, that Life to me meant Mary Considine, and I determined to put into active form a resolution that had been but a thought to me for many months past.
I found her in the garden.
“The roses are going off, Bill,” she said—pointing to the rose trees. “What a pity they don’t last two or three months longer.”
I looked at them. “Tell me their names, Mary?”
“Sharman Crawford, Caroline Testout, Daily Mail, La France, Betty, Xavier——”
I interrupted her. “Some roses are always with us,” I ventured.
“Why, what do you mean, Bill?”
“I meant you,” I replied. Lamely, I’m afraid. It sounded so, at least.
She smiled very sweetly. “That’s very nice of you, Bill. I hope you really meant it.”
“Of course I meant it. I never meant anything half so much in my life before.”
“You mustn’t make me conceited, Bill—and I’m afraid you will if you talk like that.”
“I couldn’t make you anything,” I declared. “Only a master could make you, and I’m only a big lump of commonplaceness and ordinariness. You’re just lovely. And to me, Mary, the loveliest, dearest and sweetest girl in the world,—for I love you.”
“Oh, Bill,” she gasped.
I caught her by the hand. “I want you to marry me, Mary. After all, I’ve got some little right to ask you. I’ve watched you grow up, you know. Give me the right to watch you grow up always.”
I watched her face anxiously. And I fancied I saw her sweeping lashes brim with tiny tears. “Tell me—you will, darling?” I urged.
“This is very sudden, Bill—I know that sounds silly—but I can’t think of anything else to say—and it’s very dear of you to think so much of me.”
“Then you will?” I said with eagerness.
“I don’t know, Bill. I’m not quite sure. Of course, I like you—as we all do—but——”
I tried to take her in my arms but she evaded me.
“There’s no one else——?” I asked. “Say there’s no one else!”
“No.” She spoke very quietly. “You may be easy on that point. There is no one else.”
“Then why do you hesitate, dear? Put me out of my misery!”
“You must give me a little time to think it over, Bill.” She held out her hand to me, and I took it.
“How long, Mary? How long? It isn’t as though I’m a stranger to you.”
“Not very long, Bill. I’ll promise that. I just want to feel sure—you know.”
She broke away and left me.
The rest of the day passed miserably for me. Anthony’s absence didn’t make it any the brighter and Mary’s reception of my proposal had left me in an agony of apprehension. One moment I rose to heaven’s heights and “struck the stars with my uplifted head”—the next found me in the depths of an intolerable despair. But generally, I was able to find courage and with courage—optimism! “There is no one else,” she had said. Perhaps I had tried her too closely after Prescott and Prescott’s death. “There is no one else!” Prescott belonged to the past tense. Would she have said that a week ago? I pondered the whole thing over in my mind. And the wondering with its attachment of doubt and uncertainty brought me the alternating moods that I have just described.
So the day wore on to the evening and dinner. Anthony had not returned, and everybody seemed very quiet. The meal passed uneventfully and conversation was desultory. I watched Mary carefully, trying to read my answer in her face. She seemed cheerful and smiling. Jack and Arkwright went into the drawing-room together, and in the buzz of their conversation I caught Prescott’s name. The girls started music and we settled down comfortably. All the Considines have good voices, and they were always well worth listening to. After a time, Jack Considine and Arkwright strolled into the garden, but I refused the invitation to accompany them. I was thinking about Mary. Suddenly two revolver shots rang out on the evening air. Shots that were succeeded by shouts.
Captain Arkwright came running up.
“Somebody’s tried to murder Jack,” he shouted. “In cold blood. Two shots have been fired at him from the direction of the Allingham Road. Great Scott! it was a near thing and no mistake. One has gone clean through his hat.” He paused and wiped his face—pale with anxiety and worry.
“Where is Jack?” cried Lady Considine. “Are you sure he’s all right?”
“He’s coming. And he’s all right—by the mercy of Providence. But what does it all mean?”
“Where were you, Arkwright?” demanded Sir Charles. “Weren’t you with him?”
“No! I had left him for a moment. I stopped behind one of the trees on the way to the tennis courts to light a cigarette. There’s a strong wind blowing.”
“And Jack had walked on?”
“Yes, Jack was a couple of dozen paces ahead of me. Just as I was in the act of lighting up, my attention fully taken up—I heard two shots—revolver shots, I knew with certainty. I saw Jack spin round in amazement—his hat had been neatly drilled.”
“A merciful escape,” murmured Sir Charles.
“A merciful escape indeed, sir,” replied Arkwright. “Then Jack shouted and I shouted—and I rushed back to tell you. He’s coming along.”
I ran into Jack some distance from the house. He looked a bit rattled and nervy, but was otherwise none the worse for the adventure.
“Been having a Wild West display, William,” he grinned, when I met him. “Some enterprising blighter has succeeded in letting daylight into my best hat.” He held out his soft hat to me. “Look!”
“What the devil’s the matter with the place?” I growled. “Not much peaceful Sussex about it now. Who was it—any idea?”
“Not on your life, Bill,” he responded. “All I know is that the beggar popped at me from the Allingham direction. And very nearly got me!” He paused and grasped me by the shoulder. “Considine Manor doesn’t seem to be a health resort these days.”
“Did you make any attempt to discover who it was?” I asked him.
“Well, for the moment I was too scared. When I did recover my presence of mind there wasn’t a sign of anybody.”
We reached the others. Sir Charles was bursting with indignation at this fresh outrage, but Lady Considine seemed more thankful at Jack’s miraculous escape than upset at the shock. She fussed over him—mother-like.
“I suppose it’s useless sending a search party out now?” fumed Sir Charles, “but by all the powers, I’ll put Baddeley on to this in the morning!”
“Baddeley?” said a well-known voice. “What’s Baddeley wanted for now?”
Sir Charles wheeled round quickly. His face lighted with relief.
“Another dastardly outrage, Bathurst! And in my own grounds, too!”
He proceeded to relate the incident. Anthony listened to him, gravely.
“Not more than a quarter of an hour ago, eh? I can’t have missed it by much—I’ve just got back.” He turned to Jack Considine.
“Tell me all the facts!”
Jack, assisted by Arkwright, retailed the whole story again.
“Come and show me the exact places you occupied when the shots were fired.”
He accompanied Jack Considine along the path that led to the tennis courts.
“You walked straight along with Arkwright, you say?”
“I’ll tell you when we come to the trees where he stopped to light up,” replied Jack.
“Right,” replied Anthony. “That’s what I want you to.”
They walked on. Then Considine stopped and pointed.
“Arkwright fell behind just here and sidled up to that tree for shelter.”
Anthony walked to the tree. He looked round. “All in order, Considine,” he shouted. “Here’s the match he threw away.”
He quickly rejoined his companion.
“I don’t think I shall have to trouble you for any more information. This time, I propose to show you where you were when you were shot at.”
“What do you mean?” Jack Considine stared at him, incredulously.
“Wait a moment. You’ll see what I mean.”
They walked on for a short distance, Considine watching him curiously. Suddenly Anthony stopped and caught his companion by the arm.
“This is where you were when the first shot was fired. Approximately. Am I right?”
“You are, you wizard,” responded Jack. “This is almost the identical spot.”
Anthony laughed. “Well, I told you I would, didn’t I?”
“Explain yourself, for the love of Mike!”
Anthony shook his head. “All in good time. Believe me, I have an excellent reason for keeping silent—for the present. I am sure you will understand.”
“What do you think, Bathurst?” asked Sir Charles Considine when they returned. “Shall I put Baddeley on to it in the morning?”
“As you please, sir—but I don’t think he’ll be able to help you much.”
He turned away to greet Mary who had come up to the group.
She spoke to him quietly.
Then I saw him jerk his head up and say, “Certainly! I’ll come now!”
They wandered away, and as I watched them, Sir Charles broke out again.
“It’s all very well for Bathurst to talk as he does. Baddeley won’t be able to help me, indeed! Deuced fine outlook when you can’t take a stroll in your own garden without having your brains blown out. What do you think, Bill?”
I turned to reply when a hand touched my sleeve. It was Mary, who had just returned from her walk with Anthony.
She had a curiously strained and excited look on her face.
“Bill,” she said, “that question you asked me to-day—so seriously. I’ve decided to give you the chance you want. You’re far too hot for me at cricket, I know that well enough. We’ll consider that game played. But I’ll play you eighteen holes of golf over at Cranwick to-morrow morning. Jack will caddie for you and Mr. Bathurst has promised to do the same for me. And, Bill, jolly good luck!”
I went to bed that night with a feeling of intense exhilaration. Mary’s challenge, with anything like ordinary luck, meant a pretty comfortable victory for me, for although only a moderate golfer—my handicap was twelve—the strength and power of my long game should prove too much for Mary whatever she might do with me on the green. And victory for me, according to the Considine Manor tradition, would mean the equivalent of “Yes” to my proposal. For Mary to run the risk of a defeat from me at golf was tantamount to an admission that she loved me. At the same time as I came to consider the matter more fully I began to realize that I shouldn’t be able to throw anything away. Mary had the well-merited reputation of winning many a hole by the uncanny accuracy of her short game. As Jack Considine had said to me more than once in the past when discussing his sister’s game—“Bill—she’s a perfect whale at putts.” I came to the conclusion that if I could consistently out-drive her and only keep my head on the green, I should be on velvet as regards the game’s ultimate result. When I woke next morning this idea was uppermost in my mind and the brilliant August sun that poured in at my bedroom-window only served to make me even more confident. Mary was a prize worth playing for! I forgot all the recent sinister associations of the Manor and, freshly tubbed and newly razored, floated gaily down to a light but pleasing breakfast.
Anthony was nowhere to be found. He had breakfasted, I heard upon inquiry, very early, and had excused himself to the others, upon an errand of some importance.
Also—there was no sign of Mary. I concluded—without any worrying—that she was taking full time over her matutinal toilet.
The Cranwick course was a matter of half an hour’s easy stroll from the Manor so that leaving there at ten o’clock we should be able to make a start very little after half-past ten.
“I’ve been as good as my word, Bill.” Sir Charles bustled into the breakfast room. “I’ve ’phoned to Baddeley and he’s coming along at once. He seems to think that last night’s affair has a bearing upon poor Gerry Prescott.”
I’m afraid I wasn’t as interested as he was or even as I should have been—to me Prescott was dead. Past helping! My mind was of Mary. I muttered a commonplace answer and turned away. Then with an apology I wandered into the garden. When well away from the house, I tried a swing with an imaginary club and thought of all my golfing vices,—those my friends delighted in pointing out. Did I swing too fast?—Did I cut across the ball? Did I “grumph” a straightforward shot? I tried another swing and decided that there was nothing wrong with it. I was full of confidence as I looked at my watch. Time was getting on. I went back to the house, got my clubs, and strolled off towards Cranwick. I should keep my nerve better, I concluded, if I went alone—and the idea came to me that perhaps Mary had given way to the same idea. It was five and twenty minutes past ten when I reached the Cranwick course and the others had already arrived. Jack Considine, looking none the worse for his narrow escape on the previous evening, was talking to his sister when Anthony came forward to meet me.
“Morning, Bill!” he sang out. “Fit and well?” He grinned. “Because you’ll need to be, my lad, to win. I’ve been giving Mary the benefit of some special coaching. Don’t see why you should walk away with all the plums.”
I laughed. “I’m top-hole, old man—and out to win—take it from me.”
As I spoke Mary looked straight across at me. I could see that she was frightfully nervous, and I can tell you I wasn’t sorry to see it. She walked over to me—her hands were trembling. As she noticed me glance at them she blushed deliciously and to cover her confusion bent down to tie the lace of her brogue that had come undone. She attempted to put it right—but unsuccessfully—so, looking up at me shyly, called me to fix things for her.
“Are you ready—you two?” cried Anthony—“time’s getting on, you know.”
“What’s your handicap, Mary?” I asked.
She shook her head. “You have the honor, Bill, and please get it over quickly.”
I took the first two holes easily—actually doing the second, of 400 yards, in birdie. Mary, on each occasion, finished hopelessly bunkered on the left-hand side of the “fairway.” Too confident, possibly, I approached the third somewhat carelessly. It was the shortest hole of the eighteen—135 yards only. I sliced my tee-shot badly and Mary with her best drive of the morning laid herself “dead” on the green. After I had blundered further into the rough she made me one-up only with the most nonchalant of “putts.” I was two-up after the fourth but by deadly work on the green Mary took the fifth and sixth. The seventh saw me hook my “tee-shot” most flagrantly but I recovered for a half. I took the eighth, but the ninth—another short hole—went like its fellow, the third, to my opponent. Thus at the turn we were “all square.”
“There’s no wind, Bill!” exclaimed Anthony—“you ought to be doing better than you are. Keep your head down more and give your hips a bit more freedom. Then you’ll win in a canter, laddie.” Whether the advice helped me or not I can’t say but I went straight away with the tenth and eleventh—both in Bogey. The twelfth and thirteenth were each halved. The fourteenth went to Mary—the fifteenth was halved thanks to a magnificent “putt” by Mary. From a nasty lie, she holed at a distance of six feet and as the ball rattled against the back of the tin, her assurance and sang-froid were amazing. Now the sixteenth was another short hole of 158 yards—Bogey being three. In appearance and general “lie” it was something like the old Harley Street at Woking with its straight menacing lines of gorse and heather that seemed to converge upon the player. Nobody could ever go straight at that hole. But by now I was playing with the genius of inspiration. I did a four and took the hole. With sixteen holes played therefore I was dormy two. As we started for the seventeenth I saw Anthony wave to somebody in the distance. “There’s Baddeley,” he said. “Suppose there’s some news or something. He’s coming this way.” “Can’t help his troubles,” I replied as I teed up to lay a lovely shot well past the pin. Mary landed in a pot bunker to the right of the green. I smiled. The game was in my hands. My second shot left me with a two feet “putt.” But Mary had the light of battle in her eyes. “Give me my niblick, Mr. Bathurst, will you?” she said very quietly. She went to her ball and with a perfectly wonderful pitch-shot out of the wet sand landed beautifully on to the green along which her ball slowly trickled to hit the back of the tin. I gasped! It was her hole!
“You’ve not won yet, Bill,” she uttered grimly. The last hole was over 400 yards—Bogey four. I took a fine straight drive down the “pritty.” Mary on the other hand hooked her tee-shot into the rough and after playing the odd she was still in the rough. She couldn’t hope therefore for anything better than a five. I rubbed my hands in unconcealed delight. I could reach the green with a full brassie shot, which was a trifle risky, or I could “kick my hat along” for a five and make absolutely certain of a half at the worst. I determined to be magnificent! “Give me the brassie,” I called to Jack. I struck fiercely and quickly—a good enough shot but with just the suspicion of a “pull.” To my utter consternation the ball pitched in a small bunker. Mary came well out of the gorse. I was rattled. My recovery was poor and I saw Mary, playing beautifully, get her five and the hole. All square! As her last shot rattled the tin, Baddeley walked up briskly, his face alight with excitement.
“A grand game, Miss Considine. I never felt more excited in all my life than over that last hole. I want you to grant me a favor. Could I have that ball of yours as a memento?” Mary nodded—too overcome to speak and he looked towards me as though in support of his request.
“I’ll get it for you, Baddeley,” I said and bent down to collect it. As I did so he sprang forward and something clicked on my wrists. I heard Baddeley’s voice—faint yet distinct—miles away seemingly!
“William Cunningham, I arrest you for the Wilful Murder of Gerald Prescott and I warn you that anything you may say may be used as evidence against you.”
Then Mary fell in a dead faint on the grass.
I have been asked by Cunningham to write the concluding chapter to the manuscript that has just reached me. Needless to say it has traveled by a somewhat circuitous route from the institution wherein he has been detained for so many years. My presence there in the latter part of last year awakened, no doubt, his egotistical interest in the crime, and caused him to put his own account of it to paper. His accompanying note to me contains the remark that after all I am preëminently the right person to finish the affair. Perhaps I am. At any rate, I’ve decided to do what he requests, if only to stifle certain ill-founded and prejudiced statements that were current for some time after Cunningham’s arrest, trial, sentence and subsequent detention “during His Majesty’s pleasure.” Now for the facts. The great difficulty for us who attempted to investigate the Considine Manor tragedy lay in the separation of the “faked” clues from the true ones. That, of course, to a certain extent, would apply with equal force to a number of other crimes, but in this instance we were arrayed against a criminal—proved afterwards to be a homicidal maniac who had deliberately set out to lead us astray. That was, as I have foreshadowed, our main trouble. Our second difficulty was the apparent absence of motive. But after a time this second matter became less obscure to me. I have read Cunningham’s account of the tragedy very carefully, and I will say this: he has been very fair to his readers. Only three clues have been kept from them, and in two of these three cases he himself is unaware of them to this day. The third omission he can be forgiven, for to have given it in its full significance at the time when it came under my notice would have destroyed some of the interest in the narrative from the pure mystery-story point of view. I will now attempt to show how I arrived at my conclusions. When I was called to the billiard room that morning I was very much at sea—the whole thing seemed untrue, but when I pulled my wits together I eventually found that I had to find satisfactory answers to four questions.
(a) Why was Prescott wearing brown shoes?
(b) Why had the dagger been used as well as the lace?
(c) Had Prescott dressed himself—because his handkerchief was up his right-hand sleeve—and his one laced shoe had been tied in a most peculiar manner—I only discovered this by actually handling it.
(d) Why was he there—what had brought him?
The question of the handkerchief was unobserved by Cunningham—yet it was the first slip he had made! The lace business he realized, for he spotted me looking at it closely. I will try to describe its peculiarity. The lace of the shoe had been tied in a bow over a reef-knot. I had never seen a lace tied quite like that before, and it was only by an accident I noticed it, for it wasn’t exactly obvious to a casual observer. Well, these two facts suggested a train of thought in my mind—had Prescott been murdered—then dressed or partially dressed—and brought to the billiard room? Had he been brought there from the garden? For there was mud on his shoes but no mud on the billiard room floor—despite glaringly obvious signs of a struggle and disturbance! With that idea I paid a visit to Prescott’s bedroom. I observed there were nine stairs to be negotiated—not an impossible distance to carry a dead body—for a very powerful man. My idea you see was beginning to take shape. Prescott’s bedroom told me something else. While there, I was able to make a deduction of which I am secretly rather proud! It will be remembered that the dressing space of the room was between the entrance-door and the bed, that is to say on the right of a person lying in the bed on his back. Now when a person gets out of bed he invariably turns the bedclothes away from the side where he gets out. For example, a person leaving this bed, to dress the side of the entrance-door would undoubtedly fling the clothes away to his left—yet these clothes were all lying and trailing on the side by the door. Baddeley took this as evidence that the bed had been slept in—to me it was conclusive evidence in the other direction. I was not concerned for the moment with the missing money. I was reconstructing the crime. The next stage was the garden—the footprints under the billiard room window. For a long time these disconcerted me. There were the four sets and the two kinds. Who had been Prescott’s companion? Did Prescott come from the billiard room into the garden? Had he climbed up into the billiard room from the garden? Had the footprints any relation at all to the billiard room? Then the amazing truth hit me. There was no sign of a descent from the billiard room—the earth below was clear. The shoes didn’t show a trace of scraping—yet why on earth had Prescott put them on, and not his ordinary dress-shoes? They were on Prescott’s feet because the murderer wished us to see them there—the footprints were faked—Prescott had not been outside at all—the murderer had worn them himself. It was at this stage that Lady Considine’s pearls made their appearance or rather their disappearance, and once again the job of unraveling the two skeins presented itself. Just as I had convinced myself they were dissociated from each other, came that startling discovery of the shoe-lace in Webb’s pocket. To my mind this was Cunningham’s second slip—he managed to get it into the pocket during the struggle that preceded Webb’s arrest—but it can be argued that it might very easily have served to hang Webb. I tried hard to persuade myself that Webb must and should be the murderer, but my instinct was always in conflict and I felt that the robbery was just a coincidence. It was hard to place accurately the evidence of the noises in the night—hard, that is, at this stage of the inquiry. I will attempt to explain them later. But so far, I had gone a long way towards sorting out the conditions of the crime, but had found no direct evidence against anybody in particular. But the finding of this shoe-lace opened my eyes a bit, and began to narrow down my field of suspicion. The next point was the discovery of the I.O.U., given to Prescott by Barker. How had that got into the billiard-table pocket? For a long time I was uncertain—then once again the solution came to me. By reason and by memory. It had been put there with deliberation! Nobody had used that room—we knew—till Cunningham and I went there—by “used” I mean—played billiards there. The servants gave it a wide berth for transparent reasons. I cast my mind back to the morning Prescott had been discovered—I visualized the entire scene—what had struck me about the “billiards” part of it? I had it! The three balls were lying in the pocket near the murdered man’s hand—and the red ball was on top. The splash of color it had made against Prescott’s white hand had been vivid to me. Yet when I knocked the balls from the same pocket to commence our game—the spot ball was on top—they had been moved—surely for the secretion of the Barker I.O.U.—since the murder. This caused me to eliminate Barker from my list of “suspects” and I began to grow uneasy. I decided upon that second visit to Prescott’s bedroom for I realized I had made a mistake. I hadn’t examined the inner apartment. Here I ran across the “stub” of the cigar—my idea had almost become a certainty! Then I began to appreciate the horror of the affair to me—what had come to Bill Cunningham? Yet I clung to the hope that my trail would lead to somebody else at the end, and I dared not let him know what I suspected! Here came Cunningham’s third slip! The letter fragments he found were his own. He was getting desperate now and out to involve as many people as he possibly could—why not confuse matters more? He had an old letter from Mary Considine in his letter-case—probably retained for sentimental reasons—written years before and quite innocent. “She would meet him somewhere—the station probably—in the ‘Bean’—the car they had at the time.” He suddenly realized the significance of the time she mentioned in the letter—“faked” it to appear relevant to the murder and “discovered” it under Prescott’s bed. I saw through this very quickly—strangely, Mary can’t remember ever having written it. Still, I determined to be certain so I popped up to see Mrs. Prescott. Alas! my terrible theory received no shaking. Her son was not ambidextrous and therefore not likely to wear his handkerchief in his wrong sleeve. Also as far as she knew, he was no fancy knot-tier. Running into Baddeley there, was remarkable, and of course he was on a wild-goose chase; Barker and Hornby were merely visiting Mrs. Prescott in the hope that she would accept payment of Lieutenant Barker’s debt of honor. He told me this next morning. I made some more investigations that day that revealed the fact to me that Cunningham’s grandfather had committed suicide after making a ferocious and entirely uncalled-for attack upon a Roman Catholic priest residing in his neighborhood. This decided me. Any thought that to arrest Cunningham might savor of treachery towards a friend—was dispelled. I owed it to the community to put him away where he could wreak no more harm and I arrived home that night only to hear of his attack upon Jack. The rest is known. Now this is the matter of the murder! Cunningham’s jealousy of Prescott, born of the loss of his Cricket “blue” had been fanned into a blazing flame by the invitation of Prescott for the Considine “week” and his strenuous attentions to Mary. He felt that Prescott intended a proposal and how he hated him for what he called his cursed presumption! Prescott’s success during the week and his own failures brought matters to a climax. He’d kill him and he’d also set Anthony Bathurst a nice little problem. He borrowed the shoes from Prescott’s bedroom immediately after dinner, and when the others first adjourned to the drawing-room he constructed the “footprints,” returned the shoes and kept one of the laces. He intended to hide in the inner bedroom before Prescott came to bed and then strangle him from behind by taking him unawares. Things went well for him—he saw Barker’s I.O.U. passed over and noted it. Also he noticed Hornby fingering the Venetian dagger, so he removed that—wearing gloves—when he went up to bed—it had Hornby’s finger-prints—and also might be useful if it came to a “rough house” with Prescott. Against this, however, Dennis had seen him in the garden—without, of course, recognizing him, and Mary had been conscious of the “espionage” that was connected with the “smell of a cigar.” As a matter of fact his jealousy had caused him to follow Prescott and Mary several times before—as she told us. Arrived in Prescott’s bedroom he sought a hiding-place in the bathroom, and was there when Barker went along to bed. When the latter was being questioned by Baddeley as to the people that were upstairs when he went to bed, Cunningham stated that he answered Barker’s “good-night.” He did not, because he was in Prescott’s bedroom and not in his own. When Prescott came to bed he naturally began to undress—probably sitting on the bed with his back towards Cunningham. Waiting for a favorable opportunity the latter sprang on his victim and strangled him with the lace—leaving a cigar stub in the inner room. His fourth mistake!
Prescott, no doubt, had previously removed his coat, vest, tie, collar and shoes. In the struggle the bed-clothes were disarranged, and subsequently pushed on to the floor by Cunningham.